


Pretty As A Painting

by TheCookieOfDoom



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Artist!Robb, M/M, Prompt Fill, Whore!Jon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2018-11-06 22:10:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11045343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCookieOfDoom/pseuds/TheCookieOfDoom
Summary: Robb is a starving artist living in the slums of London, down on his luck and unable to find any inspiration. Jon is one of London's painted boy-whores. With lips rouged red and coy eyes heavy with kohl, he may just be the inspiration Robb's been searching for.---Fill for several prompts, check the notes to see which ones!





	1. Chapter 1

A paintbrush and palette clattered to the ground, their owner tossing them aside with a frustrated shout that was drowned out by the sounds outside as he saw down, staring at the stretched canvas before him. It was a mess of oils, greens and blues, contrasted with muddy oranges and reds, mixing garishly. It was an eyesore, something born of frustration and lack of inspiration. Robb had painted a hundred landscapes and a thousand flowers and ten thousand skies. Cityscapes and animals and unsmiling patrons commissioning portraits. 

But now, he knew not what to paint. He needed to come up with something soon, desperately. He had a buyer lined up who wanted something beautiful, something  _ different _ . Something rare, if not never before scene in the prim and proper society of London. Perhaps even something a little risque, the buyer had hinted at. He couldn’t simply draw two people fucking, though. No, it had to be something graceful,  _ elegant _ ; he would put his name on nothing less. 

It would not be happening tonight, the sun dipping below the horizon to signify the end of the day. Not that one could really tell, past the smoke in the sky, billowing from the factories. The sun was nothing more than a soft glow through the haze that was permanently settled over the city. 

Robb had to get outside. He was losing his mind in here, surrounded by blank canvases of all sizes. They taunted him, glaringly white, untouched by his brush or a single speck of paint. Evidence of his ineptitude. 

Quickly, Robb dressed, pulling on shoes and a different--slightly cleaner but still paint-stained--shirt. He grabbed his satchel, full of blank books and pencils, and charcoals, and rushed out of his home, leaving is brushes in a jar of discolored turpentine. There were still a few smudges of paint on his face and hands, but then, it was rare that the skin of an artist was ever washed clean of his profession. He was a mess, really, unruly red curls tumbling all over the place, underside of his nails permanently blackened by coal that tinted his skin grey all the way up to his elbows, and ill-fitting clothes; he could scarcely afford tailor made attire, what little money he had that wasn’t spent on supplies being spent on food. Perhaps he would buy at least one good outfit after selling to this new buyer, to make himself look more professional. 

Robb hadn’t been in London long, having come here to get away from the countryside, and as such he didn’t yet know his way around. He did know, however, that there were parts of the city you didn’t go to, the East End being one of them. Of course, that was difficult, seeing as he lived in the East End; it was all he could afford when he first came here. It didn’t take long to know why the East End was so reviled; with loose women lifting their skirts in invitation and smiling with blackened teeth or blackened eyes, parading around topless to shamelessly reveal their bosoms on some streets. 

It was entirely accidental that Robb found himself on one of these streets now, cheeks flushing to almost match his hair as he tried to pass by unseen, keeping his head down. He was hardly a stranger to desires of the flesh, but he was still little more than a green boy, blushing at the first hint  of breast he saw, let alone an entirely bared chest. 

“Look at him, Ellie, the poor boy’s all ruddy,” one woman called, catching Robb by the arm to pull him close. His chest was pressed to hers--thankfully covered, he might’ve swooned otherwise--as she grabbed him by the jaw to get a better look at him. She looked at him like he was a piece of meat, and she a starving wolf, ready to devour him. It was decidedly disconcerting to be leered at in such a way. 

“Aye, he  _ is _ ! Sweet little green boy. Why don’t you take a tumble with one of us? We’re quite good at deflowering virgins,” Elli said, running her fingers through his girls. Robb couldn’t respond, opening and closing his mouth as he stared at her exposed breasts. They were of a-a quite  _ distracting  _ size. “You ever touch a woman’s tits before?” she asked, catching him staring. She grabbed his hand before he had a chance to respond, lifting it so that he could touch her, and that only made him blush more, much to the two ladies’ delight. 

“You’re both very beautiful,” he stuttered, and he was sure they were, under all the heavy makeup caked onto their skin; likely meant to hide bruises and keep them looking youthful. “But I really must be going now.” 

He pulled away from where he was trapped between them, running off like a skittish colt. He heard one of them call behind him, “shame, he was a pretty one.” 

The other one responded, “You think he’s a queer?”

“Must be to not be interested in what we’ve got to offer.” 

They laughed, and Robb walked off faster. If nothing else, the two women were bursting with confidence, the kind he’d never been met with before coming to London. And there was no reason they shouldn’t be; what would the consequences be, being looked down on by society? They had nothing to lose. He just wished he could muster that same confidence and outspokenness. 

The farther he went down the street, the more interests changed from half-naked women dancing in windows and down the streets. Not that he realized at first, still surrounded by full skirts; although there was a distinct lack of breasts in the open air or barely constrained by aged fabric. This far down the street, the prostitutes were more discreet, most inside the brothels or leading men into them, or talking hushed in dark corners, faces hidden by shadow. Robb realized why when he ran into someone, a man’s voice greatly contrasting the figure he caught by the waist who was clad in a silken dress, soft to the touch. 

“Terribly sorry, I wasn’t looking--"

“It’s fine.”

Robb’s eyes widened, and he looked closer at the person’s face, seeing distinctly masculine features. The man gave a slight, crooked smile at Robb’s surprise. 

“Not what you were expecting?” he asked cheekily, a taunt in his voice.

Robb shook his eyes, still staring. The man was young, made up to look younger than he likely was. With lips rouged a deep red and eyes heavy with kohl, giving him a coy look, he was, 

“Beautiful,” Robb blurted, tactlessly. 

“What?”

“You’re--I mean you look--beautiful. You look beautiful,” he said, cheeks flushing once more, a light pink adding color to his pale features as he regarded one of London’s painted boy-whores. That was certainly something that wasn’t boasted by the country-side. 

“You’re sweet,” the man said, lifting one of his hands from where it rested on Rob’s shoulder to pat his cheek, perhaps patronizingly. 

“Can I paint you?” 

“That’s the most polite way I’ve heard someone say that.” 

“What?” The man gave a meaningful look to his groin, and Robb blushed more, sputtering in protest. “No! Not like that--I’m not-- _ no.  _ I mean with actual paint. On a canvas. See, I’m an artist, and I haven’t been able to find any inspiration, and I need to paint something soon, and--” he was babbling, like he often did when nervous, silenced by the man’s laughter. 

“You really are sincere, aren’t you?” he asked. Smiling sheepishly and feeling like a boy rather than a man of twenty-three years, Robb nodded. 

“Yes. I’d love to paint you, if you’ll let me. I could pay you for your time!” he said, the last part rushed, making the man before him snicker. 

“Alright, little boy,” the man said, mocking in a way that wasn’t quite fond, but perhaps almost. “Find me here in the morning.”

“Really?”

“Mhm.” Robb was sent on his way with a kiss on the cheek, red-stained lips smearing a mark over his cheek to mix with the paint. 

Feeling childishly giddy at the prospect of finding his inspiration at last, Robb left the district in search of new paints to replace the ones he was running low on, and to get a few extras of some colors that he was sure he would need. It wasn’t until he was back home that he realized he never got the man’s name, and would therefore have a hard time finding him again. Scowling and feeling actually a bit hurt, he wondered if that was the intention. 


	2. Chapter 2

Robb had no idea exactly when he should go and try to find the man from last night. He’d just said in the morning, but there were several hours of morning in the day. After agonizing over that for over an hour--not wanting to seem too eager but also not wanting the man to think he wouldn’t show--he finally decided to just head back down to the East End brothel. 

It was much different during the day. Yes, there were still some women milling about the streets, but they were more subdued, obviously exhausted from a long night’s activities. Some of them were likely still working, but it looked like most were just returning home for the day to get some much needed and hard earned rest. 

The farther down the street he got, the less whores there were. And there were none of the boys masquerading as women with their pretty dresses and makeup; at least not outside. It made finding the brothel difficult, seeing as how Robb hadn’t actually seen just which one it was. He tried following to the best of his memory, stepping into one building, but it turned out to be the wrong one, and he was run out by a woman brandishing a broom as if it were a knight’s sword. He left, apologizing profusely, and just as he was about to give up hope, he saw a familiar head of curls exiting a building across the street and a little farther down, clad in fitting men’s clothes, rather than the lovely dress from the night before. Robb was ashamed to admit that he preferred the dress to the suit. 

“Hey!” he called, not knowing what name to use, rushing after him. It was enough to catch his attention, thankfully, and he turned with a curious expression knitting his dark brows. Then recognition lit his eyes, followed by a quietly amused smile. 

“You actually came,” he said, turning fully to face Robb. 

“Of course I did! Did you think I wasn’t serious.”

“You did have quite a strange request for me, you have to admit. Of course I thought you weren’t serious.”

“Oh… Does that mean you’ve changed your mind, then?” Robb asked, overcome with an unexpected feeling of disappointment. “I mean, of course you can, but I really do want to paint you.” The man was quite clearly trying not to laugh at this again, as he had before. It just sounded so silly to him, especially since it usually meant something completely different and far from innocent, in his position.

“Why?”

“Because you inspire me. I like the way you look; something about your appearance sparks something in me that hasn’t been in a long time.” 

“That’s called lust, green boy,” he said, unimpressed. “You need to fuck a whore, not paint one.” 

“It’s  _ not _ ,” Robb said, blushing, unwilling to admit that his night had been filled with hazy dreams of fucking a whore with dark hair and red lips. 

“If you say so.” 

“So will you let me? Paint you?” 

“I guess. Just don’t call it that, please,” he said, biting back a smile. 

Robb grinned at him, nodding in agreement. “Oh! You never told me your name.”

“You never asked.”

“I’m asking now.”

“Really? It sounds more like you’re telling.”

“Are you always this difficult?”

“Yes.” Robb found it oddly charming. Then the man’s entire aura changed as his tilted his head to look up at Robb through his thick lashes, biting his lip and sidling up to him. “Would you rather I be sweet and demure for you?” he asked, wrapping his arms around Robb’s neck and leaning up to whisper the words against his ear, making him shiver and blush like a maid. 

“Because if you do…” Robb swallowed thickly, his trousers getting just a bit tighter. “You should have paid for that last night like everyone else.” The man pulled away with a knowing smirk and Robb rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, looking down at his feet. 

“No, I don’t. I like it how you’re difficult,” he said, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears. The man hummed in a way parents often did with their children when knowing they were lying, but not wanting to call them on it. “Will you tell me your name?”

“It’s Jon, if you must know. Jon Snow.” Snow, a whore’s name. 

“I’m Robb.”

“Pleasure.” 

Robb led Jon back towards what counted as the nicer part of East End, to a dilapidated building. It looked hazardous, and unfit for human dwelling, but Jon didn’t say anything about it as he followed Robb up the stairs. He was, however, fidgeting quite a bit, unmistakably perturbed.

“Are you alright?” Robb asked, concerned. 

“Yeah, just a bit uncomfortable is all.” Seeing the hurt look cross Robb’s features, he cut him off before he could say once more than Jon didn’t have to do this. “It’s the clothes, not you; I don’t like pants much.”

“Why?”

“Have you ever worn a skirt?”

“No,” Robb said, in a tone that meant it should be obvious. Of course he’d never worn a skirt, he wasn’t--a whore.

“Try it sometime, and you’ll see why I much prefer them to pants.” Trousers were so restrictive, and tight and uncomfortable to walk or sit in. Jon had gotten used to the feeling of skits draped around his hips, legs able to move freely under the fabric. No stiff wool or inconveniently placed seems to bother him. The skirts of dresses were softer, too, made out of finer fabric that felt good sliding over his skin like what he imagined a lover’s caress would feel like, should anyone care enough to touch him sweetly. He would likely never know; a gentle lover wasn’t in the cards for a whore like him. 

And speaking of skirts...

"That dress," Robb began, cheeks already pinkening at the image of Jon in it that crossed his mind. "The one from last night. Why were you wearing it?" He was of course lovely in it, beautiful to the point of driving Robb to distraction whenever he thought of Jon in it. It wasn't something he was likely to forget anytime soon.  
  
"No self-respecting man wants to be caught with his hand down another man's trousers, or with a pretty boy on his lap. A certain amount of discretion is needed; men whore, that's known and accepted. But a man plowing the other row?" Jon hummed in disapproval. "Quite a scandal."  
  
"So it's like a disguise." Robb felt silly thinking of the old stories his mother used to tell him, about men dressing up in costumes and pretending to be someone else, all for the sake of achieving some goal. There had even been a few cross-dressing men, provided for comic relief. But Robb wasn't laughing when it was Jon in the place of the stories protagonists. The whore snorted softly.   
  
"You could call it that I guess. More like a costume coupled with a fetish. You wouldn't believe how many men have wanted me to play out fantasies of being their wife or mistress or some maid."   
  
"Are there really that many?" Robb asked. He was amazed at how cavalier Jon was, talking about such things like they were just the weather. Like the calm acceptance of seeing a cloudy sky hanging over London and knowing it would rain.   
  
"Yes. For me, at least, I wouldn't know about the other boys." He trailed off at that, and Robb knew without it needing to be said that the conversation was over. He guessed Jon was something of a loner, not close with the other whores he worked with. Perhaps was even disliked by them. Maybe he got more patrons than them? He was certainly pretty enough.   
  
"This is it," Robb said, doing his best to silence his mind in an attempt to keep Jon out of his own fantasies. He led the man up to his flat; really just an open loft, only half finished before the contractors had lost funding. Not that you could tell, with the canvases and tarps strewn all over the walls and floor, and more than a few on haphazardly made easels; the true den of an artist.   
  
"Your work is really good," Jon said, walking around and admiring the paintings. Robb was just thanking him when he turned, unbuttoning his shirt to let it fall to the ground, pooling at his feet. Robb was shocked, stopping and staring at Jon, but coming to his sentence when Jon went to take off his pants as well, perhaps over dramatically flinging his arms out, as if possessing some magical powers to freeze Jon exactly as he was.   
  
"What are you doing!?"   
  
"I thought you wanted to paint me naked?" Why else would Robb have wanted to paint a whore? Another man would be more unlikely to stand bare for a stranger, another man at that, while a whore wouldn't bat an eye. And of course, Jon didn't, not minding his nudity one bit. He knew he was attractive and had a body that was worth looking at, his popularity with the men of London proved that.   
  
"No! Please, keep your clothes on--I don't want to do anything like that." Well, not yet, at least. No, today he just wanted to capture Jon's basic form, and the beauty of his features.   
  
Shrugging, Jon bent down to pick his shirt up and putting it back on. Unbeknownst to Robb, the real reason he kept his head ducked down, hair covering his cheeks, wasn't to look at his buttons and make sure they were properly aligned, but to hide the blush on his usually pale cheeks. Already ruining this before it could even begin with his whorish actions. Robb didn't want a whore, or he would have taken him last night, painted as he was. Robb wanted something else, but Jon wasn't quite sure just what it was yet.

“How would you like me, then?” he asked, when his shirt was back on and his cheeks were once again pale. 

“Just… sit down, over here, and try to keep as still as possible,” Robb said, gesturing to a chair before rummaging around the room. He knew he had that burnt umber somewhere--he just but the damn thing for Gods’ sake!--aha! The little bugger had rolled under one of the many canvas tarps covering the floor, mostly meant to protect it from the paint that was bound to drip and be flung everywhere. 

Jon went to go sit down on the wooden chair, watching Robb from one part of the big open space to another, collecting his supplies into one pile a few feet in front of Jon. Then he dragged over a small table for them to rest on, semi-organized, along with an easel and mostly blank canvas; it had a few stains and splatters from being too near to previous works, but they would be painted over anyway; no one would know. 

When Robb finally had everything settled and in it’s place, jar full of turpentine and paintbrushes--he really needed to be better about cleaning them, but oh well, this was to be a messy sketch anyway--he was panting a bit from his rush, and Jon was smiling at him. He smiled back, curious at what caused the soft quirk of Jon’s lips, a pretty, unguarded expression. 

“What?” he asked, fiddling with one of his brushes. 

“You’ve still got my lipstick on your cheek, just there,” he said, gesturing to his own to mirror it’s placement on Robb’s face. The dark red rouge was stark against his skin, a startling contrast that was actually a bit lovely, in Jon’s opinion. He wanted to see how the make up would contrast to other parts of his body; but perhaps that was exploration better saved for another time, when Robb was less like a skittish colt around him. 

“Oh! I’m sorry--that wasn’t--it’s not--” he scrubbed at his cheek with his sleeve, trying to come up with any excuse that wouldn’t make him sound creepy. He honestly hadn’t left it there on purpose, he’d just gotten to a point where he forgot about that specific mark, and fallen asleep without washing his face. And, well, he forgot once more when he woke up; there was a reason he was almost always covered in a week’s worth of paint and grime. The life of an artist didn’t leave much room for the wiles of reality, and Robb spent much of his time in his own little world, a dimension reserved solely for himself and his inspiration, where distraction was neither welcome nor permitted. 

It was just… a bit inconvenient when his biggest inspiration was his biggest distraction. When he should be thinking about just the right angle of his brush to accurately portray the curve of Jon’s full lips, he found himself instead imagining the curve of his spine, and how it would look were his back arched in pleasure at Robb’s touch. 

These were queer thoughts Robb had never been plagued with before--thinking not only of men, but men clad in fine silk skirts and mysteriously beautiful makeup and expensive jewels--and he wished to not be plagued with them now. If only the object of his distraction was just, well, less  _ distracting _ . 

Surely his muse was punishing him for accusing her of abandoning him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at 20 comments so far; 80 more before the winner is determined. Please don't forget that my 100th comment across all my fics involving Jon/Robb (or jon/Ramsay) will win a 5k dream fic with anything they want, so comment plenty!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: brief mentions/talk of underage prostitution

Robb was making a mess of his palette, paint all mixed together haphazardly in an attempt to match Jon’s skin tone. He had to add more blue tones than he’s originally expected; mostly due to the shadows cast over Jon’s features. The lighting in Robb’s loft wasn’t the best, and he usually relied on the sunlight. With how early in the morning it was, that wasn’t much of an option; but the sun was outlining Jon’s figure, the backlight giving him an almost angelic appearance. A beautiful, sad angel. 

“Perfect,” Robb mumbled, both at how Jon looked, and at getting just the right color. He started on the painting with quick, vague strokes, just getting the general shape of Jon’s pose. He could fill in the details later, after he’d blocked out the color. 

They didn’t speak as Robb painted, Jon afraid to incase it would distract Robb, and Robb just so completely engrossed in his work. He likely wouldn’t have noticed if Jon was speaking to him in the first place, so focused as he was. It gave Jon the perfect chance to look at Robb the way Robb had been looking at him, scrutinizing his appearance. 

He was sweet, looking like a boy even if Jon knew that wasn’t the case. That didn’t mean Robb looked physically young, there was no doubt to his age. He just had an air about him that was almost innocent. Untainted by the realities of life. Jon could barely remember the last time he had been like that, couldn’t think of a time when he wasn’t cynical, suspicious of everyone and their intentions. From a young age, he’d seen the worst in people, and from not much older, he’d personally experienced. There was no such thing as a wholly good person, in his eyes. 

But maybe he was wrong. Robb had no darkness hiding behind his pretty, light blue eyes. There was no cruelty in his smile. He wasn’t lecherous when he looked at Jon, as most were, just curious. He was like a pup exploring the world, experiencing all the new sights and sounds for the first time, and utterly loving all of it, even those which were unflattering and unpleasant. Like him. Jon had no idea what Robb saw in him to feel so inspired to paint. He was just like any other of London’s painted whores, nothing special. 

***

It was nearing two hours before Robb’s mind decided to surface back to reality for a little while. And when he looked back up at Jon, really looked at him, he saw that the man had fallen asleep. It seemed like between one instance and the next he had dozed off, peacefully unconscious where he sat a few feet away. Robb had been trying to perfectly capture the whore’s dark curls, and when he looked back up, there Jon was, eyes closed and thick lashes casting shadows over his cheeks. 

Smiling softly, Robb put down his brush and palette, and walked over. He picked Jon up like a bride, careful not to wake him--and surprised at how small the man felt in his arms, he certainly seemed much bigger when he was awake and snapping sarcastic comments--and went to lay him on the small bed in the corner. After making sure Jon was comfortable, figuring he must be exhausted after a long night’s work, he went to put on a kettle to make tea, then sat down on a chair by the bed, idly sketching while he waited for the water to boil. Jon looked so peaceful, his features soft and relaxed rather than drawn and tense. 

***

Jon woke up about an hour later, startled at not being in his own bed. He briefly forgot where he was, and almost panicked, until he heard soft humming off to the side. Rolling over, he saw Robb, covered in paint and charcoal as he had been the night before, sketching away quietly, occasionally stopping to drink his tea. Jon thought he could see a stick of charcoal tucked behind his ear, discoloring his skin and hair. 

“You fell asleep,” Robb said without looking up, smiling softly. “Plenty of people do, if they’re not used to modeling for portraits. I imagine in terribly boring to be painted.” Not that he would know, of course; he much preferred being the one doing the painting, not the one being painted. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, rubbing his eye and stifling a yawn. And he really was sorry, fucking up again. It was a simple task he had been given, just sit down and keep still. And he couldn’t even manage to do that much. But he was so tired, this was later than he usually stayed up. He was a creature of the night, and didn’t take well to being exposed to sunlight. Officially, he stopped working after sunup, returning to the small flat he called home, where he would do his best to scrub the night’s activities from his body and mind, then sleep the day away until night fell once more. 

“It’s alright,” Robb said, like it was nothing. To him, it was. He got a few sketches of Jon while he slept, and they would be good enough reference to finish the painting another time, if Jon didn’t wish to continue. “Would you like some tea? I imagine it’s gone cold now, but I can have it warmed right back up in a few minutes.” 

“Alright,” Jon said, sitting up. Hopefully tea would serve to wake him up a bit more. “How does the painting look?” 

Across the flat at the stove, heating the water in the kettle once more, Robb turned to him with a smile. “It looks really good, I think. I can’t wait to see it finished.” From this angle on the bed, Jon couldn’t see it, the back of the canvas facing him. But he believed Robb--who seemed to think everything was beautiful in it’s own way--and blushed softly at the indirect compliment. It was almost pathetic--no, it was definitely pathetic--that just between last night and today, Robb had given Jon more compliments than he’d gotten all year. 

Well, he’d been given plenty of compliments, of course. Backhanded praise that left him feeling filthy and degraded and occasionally even sick. But Robb’s words came free of those feelings, without pain. Jon didn’t have to pay for them with his humiliation or body. Truly, Robb didn’t belong in London, he was too good for this city. 

Robb came back with a cup of steaming tea after a few minutes, handing it to Jon before returning to his chair. He made no move to return to the painting, and Jon thought he was done for the day. But if that was the case, why hadn’t he just sent Jon away? Rather than asking that, Jon settled for a safer topic. 

“How long have you been painting?” 

“Most of my life,” Robb said, tapping his pencil on the sketchbook he held. “There was an artist in the town that was near where I lived. Kind of a crazy old man, but he was kind. When I wasn’t helping out on my parent’s farm, I used to work for him, doing various tasks that he couldn’t, and in return he taught me how to make my own paints and use them.” 

“Kind of him.” 

“Yeah. What about you? How long have you been…”

“A whore?”

“That’s not what I was going to say.” He was trying to come up with a more…  _ polite  _ term for Jon’s trade. 

“Call it what it is; I’m a whore. I have been for a long time.” 

“Why?” Robb asked, curious what would make such a handsome man turn to that. Jon could have probably done near anything, just based on his looks alone, pretty as he was.

“Same as everyone else; I needed to eat, and it was something that I thought would be an easy way to earn a bit of money. I could do it for a year or two, and save up enough money to get out and move on to something better.” 

“And it’s not? Easy, I mean.”

“There’s a bit more to it than lifting up my skirt. That’s why I’ve been doing it so long; everyone thinks it’s a way to make a lot of money very fast, but it’s not. I fell into the same trap everyone else does.” 

“When did you start?”

“About six years ago, this November.”

“... How old are you now?” 

“Nineteen.” 

“Jesus, you started that young?” 

“I Imagine you’ve realized by now that the brothel I work at is a bit know for  _ boy  _ whores, not loose women.” By all accounts, he was actually too old to continue working there. If not for the other purposes and desires he served, he likely wouldn’t have been kept around much longer after his seventeenth birthday. He didn’t know if that was a blessing or a curse; it was just another aspect of his life. 

“What about your parents? Surely they wouldn’t have let you do that, especially so young.” 

Like before, when they had talked about the boys and young men Jon worked along side, he suddenly closed off. “I don’t have any parents,” he said. 

The way he said it led Robb to believe there was more to it than that, but he wouldn’t push the issue, not wanting to alienate Jon so soon. They spent the rest of their time in awkward, oppressive silence, until they were both done with their tea. Then they went to continue the painting, Jon sitting rigidly. 

Robb was just a stupid little boy, having come to the city with delusions of grandeur, hoping to make it big with his art. And Jon was just as stupid for seeing him as anything different. 


	4. Chapter 4

The tense silence between them continued, stretching out like a gaping, endless chasm. For the most part, Robb didn’t mind silence, preferred it, actually, it let him think. But he didn’t like this silence. It wasn’t comfortable or companionable, like when he’d been painting Jon. This was one born of animosity, tension radiating off of Jon in waves. Finally, he stood, going to rummage around some shelves along the far wall, not only for something to do. Their time was done, he could feel how bad Jon wanted to leave, not missing the way he kept eying the door, looking as if he would make a run for it. 

“How much do you usually charge for your time?” he called over his shoulder, rattling a tin can by his ear, then another when he heard no sound inside. He knew it was one of these, it had to be here somewhere… 

Jon shrugged, even though he knew Robb couldn’t see him. In all honestly, he never knew how much a patron paid for him; those things were discussed with his master as he was bartered over like a prized lamb. Not that it mattered how much his master charged, as he never saw a penny of it.

“Depends,” he settled on. 

“On what?”

“On what they want to do to me.” 

“Oh. Well, um, I guess I’m asking how much you charge for people to go all the way with you?”

“You mean fuck me.” 

“Yes, that. That’s what I mean.” 

“Again, it depends.” Robb turned to look at him with an owlish, confused expression. It was sickeningly cute, really, the young man being just as naïve as a young maid. He clearly had no idea that there was more than one way to fuck someone, while Jon had experienced them all. “Honestly, you’re so green you may as well piss grass,” he said, a harsh edge to his voice. Once again, Robb was unintentionally-no,  _ unknowingly-- _ reminding Jon that they came from such different worlds. It wasn’t a matter of the stretch of miles between the countryside and gritty, filthy London. Not even a matter of just social standing. 

Robb huffed, unphased by the insult; he’d heard worse, and he didn’t particularly mind being called green. Even if it was by someone so much younger than him, seeing as that’s exactly what he was. Jon had more than enough experience on him to look down on him, in this case. 

“I’m just trying to see how much i ought to pay you for your time.” 

“Whatever you think is fair. I’m not losing money by being here,” since he wouldn’t get it even if he was working, “I wouldn’t be working the sheets right now.”

“Well, I don’t  _ know  _ what’s fair.” The seventh can Robb picked up was the right one, coins rattling inside. He reached in to grab a handful, counting them out. He nodded to himself, deeming that fair recompense for Jon’s time and company, walking back over to the boy. “Here you go,” he said, hand outstretched. 

Jon’s eyes widened when he counted out how much Robb had given him, shaking his head in denial and trying to hand them back. “No, that’s too much.” Two pounds and thirteen shillings, that was more than any of the other boys he worked with would make in two weeks, if they were lucky. 

“No it’s not. You’re time is valuable, and you allowing me to paint you for so long is invaluable.” 

“But-you weren’t even  _ painting  _ me for most of the time.” He’d fallen asleep he didn’t even know for how long, and they’d just talked for the rest of the time. He’d hardly earned any of this; in fact when he’d agreed, he’d expected Robb to give him maybe a few pennies, at most. 

“Maybe, but you’re good company, Jon,” Robb said, his smile bright and foolish. Jon couldn’t hate him for it, even though he tried. And the way Robb said his name--so rarely did anyone, even his master, use it--he refused to admit had his heart jumping. “Will you let me do this again? See you, I mean.” 

Jon nodded dumbly, staring up at Robb from where he still sat on the bed. How stupid was this boy to waste so much on a tired, worn out whore, and not even touch him to get his money's worth? Surely Jon would have to pay for this with his body later, as he did in all things. And yet, he couldn’t see Robb demanding such a thing of him. As cynical as Jon was, he couldn’t see a single bit of darkness or cruelty in Robb. Indelicacy, yes, leading him to be unintentionally unkind, but not malice. 

“My mornings are open, if you want me then.” 

“Great!” Robb exclaimed, pleased that the animosity had seemed to fade from Jon, shocked away at least for now. “You should get home, you look exhausted. I could walk you, if you want?” 

“No that’s--I’m fine. I don’t need to be escorted.” He did, however, let Robb walk him to the door and down the stairs, at least, the red-head not leaving Jon alone until they reached the street. Then he went back upstairs to look over his sketches of a peacefully sleeping Jon, going about adding more detail to them, simply trying to kill time until it became later into the day. 

Once it was just past midday, he went to contact his current client and propose some ideas, to see if they would be interested. Not only were they very interested, but they had a number of wealthy friends who would be as well. 

Robb left with a bright smile on his face, feeling as though his future was finally panning out the way he had hoped when he moved to london. 


	5. Chapter 5

Over the course of the next month, Robb and Jon fell into something of a routine. Jon would work until the night came to a quiet end, then briefly return home. He would get cleaned up, not wanting the scent of sex clinging to his skin while he was with Robb, and change from his dresses to regular men’s clothes. Then he would pick his way through London’s filthy, congested streets, easily navigating his way through throngs of pickpockets and whores. Most would be apprehensive about the back alleys he walked through, but they were as familiar as to him. 

It was hardly extravagant, especially on the outside with it’s half finished exterior. Much of the exposed wood was rotting away, unable to withstand the constant rain seeping into it. Inside, at least, where Robb stayed, it had a sort of welcoming coziness. He had clearly made it his own. The walls were painted with murals depicting scenes of life in the country, his home. It was nice, much more so than the gritty landscape of London. The ceiling was painted a light blue with fluffy white clouds to rival the clouds of smog hanging over the city, always blocking out the sun and pouring down rain like poison. 

Of course that was only where the walls were visible, patches that weren’t hidden by homemade easels and stretched canvases. 

On his ascent up the stairs now, Jon thought about how Robb would sometimes come across him on the streets while he was out working. All made up and clad in dresses tailored to fit him beautifully, accentuating his form. Things that were much finer than what belonged on someone like him. Jon had paid with his body for every one, having no money to spare. Not that he had a choice when his master demanded he wear such finery. Meant to entice the noblemen and occasional women that came to this part of London for the particular services Jon offered. 

Whenever Jon saw Robb at night like that, he always expected to see disgust in the artist’s gentle eyes. But he never found the coldness, Robb only ever looking at him with warmth. Robb would compliment him on those nights, as he often did. Tell Jon he was beautiful. Jon wondered when he would have to pay for those sweet words, because nothing in his life ever came free. He’d had enough men call him pretty to know that. But the only payment Robb ever accepted was a few moments of Jon’s time, just a few words of conversation before going on his way and leaving Jon to his work. 

In all honestly, he was too good to be true. 

Tonight, Jon was clad in one of his fine dresses, though he did take the time to change into a clean one, rather than the one he’d worn that night. The night before, Robb had intentionally sought him out. With pinkened cheeks and a sweet bit of hesitation that Jon was becoming used to from him, Robb had asked Jon to wear the makeup and dress for the next session. So here he was, a pretty doll waiting to be captured on canvas. 

Jon didn’t knock, having been given a key to Robb’s loft by now, along with an invitation to come by whenever he liked. One he never took Robb up on, coming by only when necessary for their scheduled sessions to avoid imposing. 

As soon as he entered he could hear the familiar sound of Robb humming to himself, mumbling ideas and sketching them down in what was presumably one of his many sketchbooks. Jon could smell the familiar scent of turpentine that permeated the flat, mingled with the tea that he’d come to enjoy greatly. Coupled with the warmth from the stove, he was beginning to feel more and more like coming home at last with each passing session. 

When Robb saw Jon, he beamed, setting aside his sketchbook to come greet him properly. His cheeks were flushed and eyes were dark in a look that was more than familiar to Jon. But rather than unnerve him, as men’s lust often did, it warmed him. He knew that of all people, Robb wouldn’t hurt him. 

“Good morning,” Robb said. The sun was just barely beginning to reach over the horizon. Slowly, Robb had acclimated to Jon’s schedule, staying awake late into morning and sleeping all through the afternoon. “You look amazing. Of course you always do,” he said, at the risk of sounding like a love-struck little boy. 

Jon smiled at him, teeth made whiter behind the bright whore-red of his rouged lips. “Good morning, Robb.” 

“Would you like some breakfast before we get started? I already made your tea for you.” 

“No, I’m alright. I’ve got to maintain my figure, you know,” he joked, even as his stomach cramped with hunger. “But I’ll gladly take the tea.” 

“Okay. Here, you go make yourself comfortable on the couch-- you remember that position I showed you right? Excellent! I’ll get the tea for you.” 

Jon went to sit on the couch as instructed, legs folded up beside him as he leaned against the arm. Robb came back to hand him to cup of steaming tea, before immediately buzzing off to pick a suitable canvas and gather his paints. Jon watched over the rim of his cup, amusement lighting his eyes as Robb flitted around like a humming bird. When it was finally time to begin, Jon had to delay for a moment longer. 

“Would you mind if I took off my corset? It’s not the most comfortable thing to wear in this position.” Jon could do it, of course, he often did in the brothel. But unlike his cruel master, he knew that Robb would not force him to do anything that made him uncomfortable. 

“You’re wearing a-? Nevermind that, of course you can. I said to make yourself comfortable, didn’t I?”

Jon stood, pulled at the laces of his dress until it was loose enough to slide off his shoulders and pool around his waist, and saw Robb very determinedly trying not to look. Such a sweet boy. Jon called him over, turning so that his back was Robb. 

“Could you give me a hand, please? I can’t pull the laces on my own; I’m flexible, but I’m afraid not to that extent.” 

“Yes… yes of course.” 

“You’ve not helped many women out of their corsets, have you?’ Jon asked when Robb made no move to touch him. The question was not meant to be malicious, nor was his voice harsh. The only edge to it was that of gentle teasing. He looked over his shoulder when Robb didn’t answer to see his sheepish smile. 

“I’ve, uh, never helped any, actually. It’s improper for a lady to undress around a man.” 

“Then I suppose it’s a good thing I’m not a lady, isn’t it?” 

Robb pale cheeks turned pink once again. “I guess you could say that.” 

“Don’t worry, it’s simple. Just untie the laces and and pull them through, like boots.  _ That’s it _ , good boy.” Jon sighed in relief at finally being able to fully expand his lungs again.  

Robb pulled the laces all the way free from the corset so that the constrictive piece would fall away from Jon’s body. His eyes widened when he saw the grooves down his body, lines imprinted into his flesh from the seams and whale bone ribbing. 

“Why do you wear this?” Robb asked, running his fingertip lightly down one of the red marks. Jon bit his lip, suppressing a soft groan. 

“Have to. Gives me a woman’s shape.”

“If those men want women so bad, why don’t they get one instead? There’s many ladies around there.” 

Jon laughed, leaning into Robb’s hands just so as the artist kept touching him. “Because they can’t do to a woman what they can do to me.” This was usually where Jon stopped talking. Where he closed himself off and shut Robb out, not wanting to relive the horrors he’d gone through by recounting them. That he could continue to go through, until his clients grew tired of him and he was tossed aside. 

But Jon didn’t do that this time. He turned around and looked up at Robb with his big, pretty brown eyes, dress still around his waist and torso still bare. Something that Robb was acutely aware of. They were standing so close, almost pressed chest to chest. It was a kind of intimacy Robb was unfamiliar with, and Jon could see it. 

“Do you want to touch me?” he asked, voice soft, meaning more than how Robb delicately touched him now. He wondered if this was the day Robb would finally demand payment for his kindness, exact his pound of flesh. But Robb was obviously flustered at the question, his eyes straying too low to be appropriate for just a handful of seconds before darting back to meet Jon’s gaze. Jon was trained to know that look, and knew what Robb wanted even if he couldn’t say it, so he didn’t wait for an answer. But when he began to unbuckle Robb’s belt, his hands were slapped off and he was pushed away by his shoulders, stumbling back to fall onto the couch. 

“No,” Robb said forcefully. In this one thing he wasn’t hesitant, or shy, or unsure. “I don’t want to touch you. Not like that.” Not like the way others had touched Jon. His eyes softened when he saw how Jon looked at him then, like he expected to be hurt in some way, and went to kneel down before him. 

“I don’t want to hurt you like all the others. I don’t want you to be afraid of me.” 

“As if you could ever scare me. I’ve seen far worse than you,” Jon said, but Robb could still see the way he was tensed, as if ready to run. 

“I already have.” He put his hand over Jon’s as he noticed the young whore’s was shaking. He’d been thrown around before, without a doubt, and had likely expected that now. Just as there was no doubt that men had forced themselves on Jon, hurt him and made him fear other men as much as he hated them. Robb didn’t want to have his name added to the list of Jon’s nightmares. “I only want to paint you, Jon, nothing more. Please believe that.”

“But--you’re always so kind--why?”

“That’s because you’re my  _ friend _ , not because I… want to fuck you. I don’t want you to feel like you have to repay me because you  _ don’t _ , Jon. You never have to.” 

Jon watched him for a long time before finally nodding. Robb smiled, lifting his hand to brush Jon’s cheek before finally withdrawing. He took his time getting ready, wanting to give Jon plenty of time to calm down. After a little while, once Jon regained his composure, Robb had him pull his skirts up over his thigh, and keep the top half of his dress pooled around his waist as he lounged on the couch. Gorgeous and sensual, and wholly inappropriate for a lady. 

As he’d said, it was a good thing Jon wasn’t a lady.


	6. Chapter 6

“There’s something I would like you to see,” Jon said one morning, catching Robb’s attention easily. Never before, in the months they’d known each other, had Jon wanted to do something that wasn’t being painted. For all Robb called Jon his friend, rarely did they interact as such outside of these sessions, aside from when Robb came across him while he was working. And even then, it was Robb seeking Jon out.

“Oh? What is it?”

“A sort of… party.”

“What kind of party?”

“It’s hard to describe. What kind of party do you think would take place at a brothel?”

Robb smiled at the way Jon sounded almost flustered. “I don’t know, Jon, what kind?”

Jon rolled his eyes, fiddling with a small envelope. Robb had noticed it in his hands when he’d walked in, but chose to say nothing, despite wanting to know what it was.

“You’ll just have to come and find out for yourself. It’s….” It was the reason he had been kept around so long, these parties. He handed Robb the envelope. Opening it, Robb found a ticket inside, marked with a bright red kiss in the shape of Jon’s lips. “You’ll need to wear a mask. It’s a secret affair of course, and it wouldn’t do for you to be the only one not wearing one; you would stand out too much.”

“When is it?”

“Tomorrow night, at 10. Will you go?” Jon didn’t say it, but it was evident in the way he spoke that he wanted Robb to be there. A friendly face in the crowd for once would do him good.

“I can hardly refuse a personally delivered invitation now, can I?” Robb said lightly. Jon laughed half-heartedly. He was unsure how to feel about finally inviting Robb to one of these events, not knowing how Robb would take it. Hopefully not terribly. Hopefully, when confronted with the truth about Jon, he would not toss him aside like the filth he was, pretty makeup and elegant gowns be damned.

“If anyone gives you any trouble, just tell them that I invited you.” It wasn’t an event just anyone could go to. The brothel had to be selective, and Robb hadn’t been seen there before. Even with a mask, he would be recognized as a stranger with that red hair of his; there were few that came to the brothel with hair that color.

“Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow night then,” Robb said, smiling at Jon. Jon smiled back softly, walking out the door to return home, the week's payment clinking softly in his pockets. Robb must have found some new, quite generous patrons because he’d been steadily increasing how much he paid Jon until there were a fair few amount notes mixed in with the coins. Jon almost felt guilty taking the money. After all, he was just sitting around in provocative poses, half the time barely even awake enough to provide conversation. But Robb was always insistent, and he was slowly building up enough savings—hidden from his master of course—to maybe get away from this place and this life one day.

***

Robb had no idea what to expect when he walked into the brothel the next night. Jon had been so vague - deliberately so, Robb was sure - that he felt wholly unprepared. He handed a man his ticket, and then put on his mask. He’d painted it himself, and he could see it was nothing like the masks the other guests were wearing, which bore typically delicate masquerade designs. Robb was lead through a set of curtains and down a dark hall into a dimly lit room. There was already a crowd of people seated around an elevated stage in the center. Two pillars rose from the stage, about two feet apart, by Robb’s estimation. Robb took the first empty seat he saw, towards the middle and a bit in the back, and waited for the show to begin.

“Is it your first time?” the masked man beside him asked. Robb smiled sheepishly, his mask only just covering the blush on his cheeks.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Aye, a bit. You look like a skittish colt, lad. Not to worry, nothin’ will come of you being here. See that man over there?” He gestured to a grey-bearded, balding man in the first row of seats, right in front of the stage. It was evident that only guests of particular influence got to sit there. Robb nodded, looking back to the man beside him. He was grinning sharply. “Well, that’s Janos Slynt, head of the police force. He’s a regular here, you know, and as long as he stays that way, nothing will happen to any of us. the Master of this house arranged to have that be the case.”

“Who is the Master?” Robb asked, wanting to know who it was that owned Jon.

“I couldn’t say, I haven’t personally met the man. I’m not important enough,” he said with a laugh. Robb laughed with him, weakly. “What about you?”

“Oh, no, I’m definitely not important enough. I’m just an artist.”

“An artist you say? Have I seen your work before?”

“I doubt it. I do mostly private work, nothing… public.” The man hummed in a way that said he knew exactly what Robb meant by that.

“Perhaps I’ll have to commission you sometime. Tell me, have you met our lovely in-house entertainment for tonight?”

Robb opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it. It would likely not be the best of decisions to reveal to this stranger that Jon had been the one to invite him personally. “No,” he said instead, the lie tasting strange on his tongue. As if he was dishonoring Jon in some way by hiding their friendship. He knew what Jon would think, had he been there to overhear; that Robb was ashamed of them because he was just a whore, but that was far from the case. Robb could think of no good, and only too much bad that would come of revealing their relationship.

“You’re going to love him. He’s such a pretty thing, like a girl almost. A bit older than the rest of the boys, not that I mind. I like ‘em a bit more broken in myself, and by his age, they’re quite well trained.”

“I’m sure,” Robb said, feeling sick at the way he was speaking of Jon. He could not help but imagine the things Jon might be trained in. Although new to this side of life, he had to admit to himself that his imaginings were likely much less interesting than the reality of Jon’s world. He supposed he would see tonight just what it was Jon had been doing for these last six years.

“Oh look, here the Master comes now,” the man said, pleased, and Robb turned his attention to the stage. A man was walking up the few steps to stand between the two pillars. He was distinctively serpentine, his features sharp, his smile vicious as he regarded the crowd. The only one present who did not deign to mask his features. Why would he, when it was no secret who he was? A brothel master had no need to hide himself, not mixing with polite company save for when they came to his pleasure house. There was nothing familiar about him that Robb could see; he was not someone he had run into before when seeing Jon on the street. With indigo eyes that seemed almost purple—surely a trick of the light—and long hair that was almost white, he would have been a difficult man to forget.

“Gentlemen,” he said, his voice a silky purr even as he spoke loud enough for all of the silent crowd to hear. “Ladies,” he said with a flourishing bow to the few women sitting before the stage. “I trust you are all ready to see the night’s entertainment?” A cheer went up, and he grinned. “Excellent. We will begin shortly. Until then, please, help yourself to the refreshments.”

He snapped his fingers, and several boys entered the room, carrying trays of drinks and finger foods. It disgusted Robb to see how they were pawed at as they walked through the rows of guests. Many of them were no older than his brother Bran, one or two even looking closer to Rickon’s age. the Master left the stage, going to speak with Slynt and two other men, one of which had no qualms about pulling one of the younger boys onto his lap. the Master did not seem pleased but hid his displeasure behind an elegant smile.

“Meryn Trant,” his new ‘friend’ supplied when he caught Robb staring. “That one is a piece of work. He likes the youngest boys here, and what he does to them….” The man made a sound of disgust. “The Master wouldn’t tolerate him if he were not another head of the police. He doesn’t like it when his boys get hurt—well, not too much anyway. It doesn’t do for them to be out of commission too long, and anyone that injures them enough to the point they can’t work have to pay a hefty price. I’d imagine Trant has to pay quite a bit.”

“You disapprove?”

“Quite. I wouldn’t have come to here on my own, actually. I’ve never had a taste for young boys, as pretty as the Master’s pets are. But a gentleman friend of mine told me about lovely Jon. I’ve been coming to see him since.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “You simply must have him, at least once. He’s quite the treat. You’ll see tonight; the things that young man can withstand, it’s extraordinary. I can understand why the Master has kept him around so long; it certainly serves to have such a lovely creature as that for the rest of us to take our frustrations out on in a… less gentle manner.”

“How do you mean?” Robb asked, his interest piqued. With Jon having not told him what to expect, and no one else supplying the information, he was eager to hear what this man had to say.

“Oh, I don’t want to spoil the surprise for a first timer such as yourself. But let me just say, he is truly exquisite. I am sure you will be nothing less than amazed by the time you leave here tonight. Just try not to make a mess of yourself before the real fun begins,” he said with a laugh, clapping Robb on the shoulder. “Of course, if you do, one of the boys will be on their knees to clean you up at your request.”

“That will be unnecessary,” Robb mumbled.

“It’s alright lad, nothing to be ashamed of. We’re all men here; we have needs. And besides, you’re young. Not like these old perverts old enough to be their great-grandfathers.” Robb shrugged noncommittally, saved from having to answer by the Master once more taking his place on the lit stage.

“My friends, as promised, here is our lovely jewel. Come now darling, don’t be shy,” he cooed, and Robb’s breath hitched watching Jon to ascend the steps. He was assisted by two large men, each holding him by the arm to help keep him steady. Jon was beautiful, delicate as they lead him onto the stage. The room was silent save for a few murmurs of appreciation. It was quiet enough for Robb to hear Jon’s shallow gasps as he tried to breathe. Looking closer, Robb could see why. Jon had to be wearing a corset under the dress, judging by the narrowness of his waist. It was smaller than any woman’s Robb had ever seen; he thought he might be able to fit both his hands around Jon’s middle and have the tips of his fingers touch. It was a wonder he could breathe at all.

“Gorgeous,” the man beside Robb whispered, and he had to agree. Jon had never been more beautiful, his features soft and rouged lips plump. A plush cushion was placed at the Master’s feet, and Jon was carefully guided to kneel on it, his pretty white dress pooling around him. Robb thought it made him look like a sacrifice from some fairy tale, with its lace and sheer, wispy silk.

“Isn’t he just beautiful? Truly, I’ve met no one who could compare.” The Master rested his hand on Jon’s head, softly petting his curls like he was a beloved pet. Jon leaned into the touch, his eyes half closed, doing nothing to resist when the men who had led him onto the stage now grabbed his arms. Shackles were clamped around each wrist, and chains looped up to secure Jon between the pillars. When the chains were drawn taut, he was pulled up on his knees, arms spread wide, leaving him vulnerable and even more lovely. It only added to the sacrificial note of the scene.

The Master moved to stand behind Jon, keeping his head up by a fist in his hair—Jon moaned as his curls were pulled on—and waited until Jon looked to be within a few breaths of passing out. Only then did he release him, Jon’s head lolling forward. The Master untied the ribbons on Jon’s shoulders, allowing his dress to slip down and gather around his hips. The Master pulled a gleaming gilded dagger from a sheath at his side. He cut through the laces of Jon’s corset, allowing the restrictive garment to fall away from him, and Jon took a deep, shuddering breath, filling his chest with as much precious air as he could.

The audience murmured again, watching hungrily as Jon struggled to regain his strength that the deprivation had taken from him. Robb’s eyes traced the bright red grooves in Jon’s pale flesh, wanting to touch him as he had that first time. He could only imagine Jon was aching from being bound in the thing, his ribs pressed in farther than what was natural, and far beyond what was comfortable.

His awe must have been plain on his face, easy to pick from the way his mouth went slack, his attention entirely trained on Jon. Sure enough, his friend beside him noticed. “See? I knew you would be impressed,” he said, sounding satisfied. He may as well have not spoken for all the attention Robb paid him, watching instead as Jon began to struggle. He pulled at the shackles around his wrists despite the futility of it—his slight strength was nothing compared to iron and steel—causing the Master to tsk chidingly at him.

“Now, now, love, there is no call for that,” he said, sounding delighted as he watched Jon struggle, like this was exactly what he wanted. His words only made Jon fight harder, and the Master gleefully motioned his men to bring something else onto the stage. “He’s quite spirited tonight, isn’t he? Why don’t we break him in a bit before things get started?” A raucous cheer went up, and the Master turned his back on them. He hummed thoughtfully, perusing the items on the table his men had set out, before finally picking something. “Yes, I believe this will do nicely,” he said, slapping the flail over his palm.

The Master stroked Jon’s cheek with the end of the flail softly, smiling, before bringing it down on Jon’s back. Jon tensed up, body jerking at the sudden pain, but Robb was amazed to see that Jon didn’t make a sound. the Master hit him again, and again, and he took it in defiant silence, his master tutting at him.

“You’re being rude,” he said. “These lovely ladies and gentlemen have paid quite a lot to not only see you, but hear you as well. And you are depriving them the pleasure of your lovely voice,” he chastised. Jon only glared hatefully at him. Robb could see Trant stirring several rows ahead of him, itching to get his hands on Jon. Robb half expected the Master to allow him onto the stage, but all he did was put the flail back.

Jon could not see what his master was reaching for now, only able to hear him picking things up and putting them down. He could tell, though, from the way the audience collectively gasped in anticipation that his master must have taken the whip. He hoped it wasn’t the one tipped in knots and small metal beads. His master cracked the whip against his skin and Jon clenched his teeth; no, it was the narrow one that split his flesh in thin lines. Already he could feel blood beading up along the line. Before long Jon was whimpering, soft gasps of pain passing his lips, and only then did his master stop. He stepped closer behind Jon to touch his skin—hot and red and aching—and smiled approvingly. Jon could hear it in his voice. “Yes, I think he’s sweet and tender now,” he said as if Jon was nothing more than a piece of meat.

“My lord, the honor of getting my lovely boy first, is yours,” the Master said, holding the whip out to him. Janos Slynt eagerly stood and climbed the steps, taking the whip to beat Jon until his arm grew tired. He became frustrated when Jon did not make a sound, regardless of how hard he was struck.

Robb watched in horror. It must have looked like he wanted to intervene because his friend spoke up. “He’s in no danger,” the man assured him. “Yes, the whip hurts. It’s probably agony, but look between his legs: he’s hard. The sweet boy likes the pain. I told you, he can take quite a bit—this is nothing to him.” Robb didn’t believe him, but he could indeed see that Jon’s cock was tenting the thin fabric of his dress. He was moaning quietly, too, when Slynt raked his nails down Jon’s back.

After Slynt returned to his seat, Trant stood. He was more careful in his selection, regarding each instrument that Robb couldn’t see slowly. Seeming to come to a decision, Trant moved away from the table, but there was nothing in his hands. He knelt down behind Jon, the young man’s body tense, and took two handfuls of his dress. Robb watched Jon’s eyes widen when the skirt was ripped up the back, everyone cheering as Trant tore it away to expose Jon’s body. He was not done, however, tossing the tattered remains of the dress away before grabbing Jon’s hips to pull him back, until he was pitched forward and precariously balanced on his knees, his shoulders straining to bear his own weight without being able to hold himself up on his hands.

Jon wrapped his fingers around the chains in a white-knuckled grip, his eyes falling on Robb. He was easy to recognize, his cheap mask artfully splattered in the shades of paint he most often used to recreate Jon’s lithe form on canvas. Jon didn’t look away from him when the first blow was struck; a willow switch thinner than a finger over his buttocks, the sound it made sharp. Even from this distance, Robb could see tears shining in Jon’s beautiful eyes. Trant hit him again, striking viscously, and Jon cried out. The next attack made him scream, the tears spilling over his cheeks, fat and glistening as they rolled down his face and dripped onto the floor. Trant looked satisfied, smirking at Jon, waiting for the burn on his ass to subside before striking him again. His skin already sensitive, Jon sobbed at the pain, clenching his eyes shut and lowering his head. Robb wanted to go to him, to make sure he was alright, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the graceful slope of Jon’s back, striped red from the whip and flail.

Jon was a mess when Trant finally finished with him, having worked Jon over thoroughly. No part of his ass or the back of his thighs had been left unscathed, striped crimson and raised. Trant tossed the switch onto the table and went back to his seat, grabbing the first boy he saw by the wrist and dragging him onto his lap.

“Doesn’t he sound wonderful?” the Master asked, coming forward once more to stroke Jon’s back. Every touch made his body jerk and shiver. “You can tell he really puts his whole body into his screams; he’s such a dear like that. I think all of you should be able to hear him; for a price, of course. For now, though, we’ll give his sweet voice a rest.” He took the gag he’d been holding behind his back and lifted Jon’s head with his free hand, sliding the metal bar between his teeth and buckling the leather straps behind his head. Jon’s eyes were red-rimmed and hazy, and already there was a slight bit of saliva trickling down from the corners of his mouth.

“My sweet pet, you’ve been doing so well,” the Master said, taking something from the table before going to kneel beside Jon. He rubbed a hand down Jon’s quivering thigh soothingly, brushing Jon’s hair aside with his free hand to kiss the nape of his neck. “I think you’ve earned a reward, hm?”

Jon mumbled something unintelligible through the gag and Robb watched as the Master coated his fingers in glistening oil from the dark glass bottle he had taken. Robb couldn’t see what he did after, but he could imagine what the man was doing from the way Jon moaned around the metal in his mouth, high and reedy. He tried to spread his legs farther apart, grinding back on the Master’s fingers until the man put his free hand on Jon’s lower back with a laugh to keep him in place.

“Look at that. Isn’t it lovely how needy he gets when he has a few fingers in him? I know some of you prefer him to be dry, but I think it is much better like this when he’s nice and pliant. Soon enough he’ll be begging for it.”

Jon was writhing in pleasure by the time the Master moved away from him, standing and cleaning his fingers off on a cloth one of his men handed him. “Why don’t you help my dear boy get more comfortable,” the Master said, and his men when to adjust Jon’s shackles, lengthening the chain enough that he fell forward, barely catching himself on the ground. His shoulders had to have been aching from being strained for so long. Now he lay limply on the ground, staring vacantly at the masked audience.

Robb wished he had brought his book and charcoals. Now was a perfect time for some more risqué pieces of Jon. He wanted to capture the way his lips were stretched around the gag, the way his red and bruised back curved, now that he could see the extent of what had been done to him. Robb had never painted Jon naked before, now that he thought about it, a blush rising to his cheeks. In fact, he couldn’t remember even seeing Jon’s bare body in its entirety. His torso, of course, and quite a bit of thigh, but never his cock as he had tonight. Robb was almost ashamed to look at him, but he couldn’t bring himself to look anywhere else. Jon was simply too beautiful, easily holding the attention of everyone in the room. Even Trant was rapt, the boy on his lap forgotten, enough so the child was able to quietly scurry away back to the other young whores.

“Now, who shall I allow to have him first?” the Master drawled, and a commotion erupted. Some patrons stayed mysteriously silent, while others called and shouted, hollering obscene amounts of money for the privilege to be the first to have Jon for the night. It was an elderly man that bid the most, the Master’s eyes lighting up as he beckoned him onto the stage. The Master took the allotted money, depositing it into a chest, and the man went to kneel behind Jon, opening his trousers. Jon’s pale body lurched forward as the man thrust into him, and Jon moaned softly. The Master had teased Jon open, but not allowed him to come, and he sought his release now, moving back against the man.

Robb hardly noticed what was happening behind Jon, too entranced by the way his lightly muscled body moved. When Robb had first met Jon, he’d been just shy of skinny, only a thin layer of fat to cover his bones and keep him soft. In the months they’d known each other, Jon had gained a bit of weight, almost all muscle. He was beautifully toned, something Robb always quietly appreciated, especially when painting him.

The old man did not last long for all the money he had paid, and he left Jon groaning in frustration having not come himself. Another man was quick to follow the first, fucking Jon hard and fast, making the chains binding his wrists clink together. He lasted much longer than the first, but like the Master, he prevented Jon from coming, stopping just as Jon was getting close. After the third and fourth men had used him, Jon was attempting to beg around the gag in his mouth.

At last, the Master removed Jon’s gag. Robb thought it was to allow Jon to speak, but then a lady walked up, skirt swishing around her ankles and he understood that was not the case. the Master put another cushion on the ground in front of Jon, and she reclined back on it, pulling her skirt up her thighs. Robb watched as Jon disappeared beneath the edge of the fabric. As he listened to her pleasured cries, Robb thought that he should paint Jon this way as well.

While Jon pleased the woman, yet another man joined them on the stage to fuck him, the lady only moaning louder with each thrust, fisting her delicately gloved hands in Jon’s hair to pull him closer. Robb wondered what Jon’s mouth felt like, having dreamt about kissing him—as well as using his lovely mouth for other things that he was ashamed of—more often than was appropriate, sometimes even thinking about it when painting Jon’s lips, staring at them for long bouts of time in an attempt to capture every detail.

Jon finally reached his peak, his cry muffled against the woman’s sex. The man behind him climaxed and withdrew, but the woman lingered, keeping Jon buried between her thighs until she was trembling, Jon having wrung every last drop of pleasure from her body. Robb half expected her legs to be shaking too much to walk on her own and need assistance back to her seat, but she managed to straighten her dress and make her way back without help. Jon himself was left panting. When he pulled himself up to his knees, Robb could see his lips were glistening and come was dripping obscenely to the floor between his legs to mix with the small pool of his own.

There was still an entire audience left to take their pleasure on Jon, and already he looked exhausted. Even worse, some of the men decided it wasn't pleasure they wanted from Jon’s body, but pain, taking various instruments from the table to torture Jon. Robb would have been concerned, if not for the fact that Jon was still clearly aroused. The sounds he made were delicious, when he wasn’t gagged with a cock deep in his mouth, and the way his body moved with each blow was mesmerizing. Robb’s fingers itched for a pencil.

Jon came twice more, full of the seed of countless men before his cries turned pained. It was too much; he couldn’t possibly take any more. And yet he did, passed between a group of five.

“He’s marvelous,” Robb’s new friend said. “Why have you not bid for him? Do you not wish to touch? I wouldn’t shame you if you’re the kind that likes to just watch, but believe me, you will not regret getting your hands on him.”

The reason Robb had not made any offers was because of his honor, he told himself. He did not want to add to Jon’s suffering, as beautiful and scripted as it was. But in truth, it was because he had not thought to bring any money. Not that it would have mattered, these high members of society were throwing more money away than Robb had ever earned. It seemed he did not need to mention it, as soon his friend was bidding for them both. The man made his offer—an outrageous amount of money—and stood when the Master approved, motioning for Robb to join him. Robb’s friend wasted no time in going behind Jon, nodding to Robb as he knelt down. “I’m sure you want his mouth, with how much you’ve been staring at it.”

Up close, Robb could see the come splattered all over Jon’s body, some even matting his hair in places. He looked utterly debauched, disgusting, his angelic, innocent-looking face now filthy, and so, so beautiful. Robb had not seen something more beautiful than the way Jon looked now, on his knees, waiting to be used.

Jon didn’t even look up, just parted his plush lips obediently, until he felt fingers softly caressing his cheek, heedless of the tacky come sticking to his skin. His pretty eyes widened when he saw Robb, leaning into his touch just slightly. Something that looked like agony twisted Jon’s features when Robb’s friend thrust into him sharply, pushing him forward into Robb. Robb caught him, watching in amazement as Jon keened and whimpered softly.

“I think you’re hurting him,” Robb said, and his friend laughed.

“Don’t worry; the whore can take it. Can’t you?” he asked with another hard thrust that had Jon biting his lip to keep from crying out, blinking back shining tears.

“I-I can. I’m fi-iiiine,” Jon said, his voice raising a pitch. Robb ran a hand through his sticky curls softly, rubbed Jon's neck, ran his hand down the curve of his spine as he had been aching to do. Even now Jon’s skin was hot to the touch from the beatings, raised where he had been whipped. It was a wonder how he had no severe wounds from the way he was treated. Robb supposed the men here must have experience in how not to leave scars. He’d learned enough from Jon to know that some people liked to be hurt as much as others loved to hurt them. Looking down, he could see how hard Jon was between his legs, even now, after hours of torment. Jon must be one of those people that liked to feel the pain.

“You’re so beautiful,” Robb mumbled, cupping Jon’s cheeks to lift his head. The whore was propping himself up on Robb, holding onto his shoulders. Robb’s clothes would be ruined, but Robb didn’t mind when he got to hold Jon’s trembling body in his arms, nuzzling his face into his hair. He strangely liked the scent of sweat and sex clinging to Jon; it suited him, like his whoreish makeup and dresses whenever Robb painted him.

Robb didn’t want to leave, but eventually, he had to, pressing a kiss to his brow before standing. He walked stiffly back to his seat, achingly hard but doing nothing about it. He could wait until he was alone with the memories of how Jon looked to take care of it.

“Definitely a voyeur,” his friend said when they were sitting together once more.

“What?”

“It means you like to watch, not so much touch. To each their own. You certainly won’t have to pay as much, that’s for sure. I was right about him, wasn’t I?”

“Yes. Yes, you were.”


End file.
